


Better that I break the window (than miss what I should see)

by dearericbittle (dutchmoxie)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Laura Hale, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, College Student Stiles, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, M/M, POV Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski Finds Out About Werewolves, Stiles Stilinski is Part of the Hale Pack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 17:41:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16454441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dutchmoxie/pseuds/dearericbittle
Summary: Someone opened Stiles’ window. But he’s all the way on the 7th floor - how the fuck did that happen? Spoiler alert: werewolves are real. And really hot.





	Better that I break the window (than miss what I should see)

Stiles is pretty sure the window had been closed when he went to bed. 

As the son of a sheriff, he is pretty meticulous about the whole safety thing, even though his apartment is on the seventh floor and not even parkour could get people to his window without killing themselves on the concrete below. 

And yet, his window is open. Just a crack, but it is open. No longer locked. No longer safe. 

He grabs the baseball bat from under his bed - that bat had gotten him through some hairy times in high school - and tries to move quietly. He isn’t usually any good at the quiet - or subtle - thing, but if there is someone who’d somehow gotten to his window, he needs the element of surprise. 

Stiles isn’t a big, strong guy, he is roughly 150 pounds of pale skin and fragile bones. Next to the bat, his only defense is sarcasm. And that either worked or got him seriously hurt when idiot muggers took offense. 

But at least he has the element of surprise. Whatever fool had been attempting to get inside his apartment is probably not expecting their prey to be wide awake and ready to attack. So he just has to be subtle for a few seconds longer. 

His luck will hold out that long, right? 

He stubs his toe on the coffee table. 

“Fuckballs,” he curses, almost letting the bat slip from his fingers. “Fuck, that hurts.” 

There goes that whole subtlety thing. 

Something crashes near the sink with a dull thud - is that the sound of a body hitting the ground? So maybe his natural clumsiness surprised the burglar as well and he can still get the drop on this guy. 

The burglar is probably a guy - that’s just statistics, and Stiles knows all about crime statistics. He knows way too much about crime for a normal person. Good thing he isn’t normal. 

His lack of normalcy is why he has the industrial strength flashlight under the coffee table - he’d been working on a sock puppet show with Scott, because they’re adults and hand puppets are just childish. They’ve made progress, they’ve grown up - and Stiles’ sock puppet version of Darth Vader is a gift to this world. 

Not that Scott gets that, because he still hasn’t seen Star Wars. Because he’s the worst, and would rather be gross with his girlfriend. 

Yeah, this is probably why Stiles is still single, so what? Star Wars is better than going on a double date at a bowling alley - a bowling alley, seriously Scott?

Anyway, so flashlight. 

The first thing that catches his eye is the trail of blood drops leading in the direction of his kitchen area. His heart pounds in his throat, because this is starting to look a lot like the opening scene in a horror movie, and he does not want to be the guy who dies before the credits. He is smarter than that. 

He follows the trail of blood to the sink, and then past it in the direction of his way too small bathroom. But before he gets that, he sees the eyes - they almost make him think that the flashlight is reflecting off something. He could have sworn they were electric blue for a second, before they closed to hide from the light of the flashlight. 

“Whoa,” he drops the bat when he sees the source of all the blood. 

The burglar is seriously injured, a hole in his gut that will probably kill him if Stiles doesn’t act right the fuck now. But he’s been off Adderall for like two days, he’s still half asleep, and his brain isn’t exactly cooperating. 

Wait, is that actually a shotgun wound? 

“Dude, I’m pretty sure I didn’t shoot you,” he rambles, just to fill the silence. “I mean, my dad didn’t think a gun was a great combo with my clumsiness, and since you are never going to talk to my dad, I can tell you he’s probably right about that.” 

Sure, once upon a time he had held a gun, and he’d even been allowed to fire it once or twice at the range. But his dad still doesn’t want him near any guns - he didn’t do all that well at the whole aiming thing. Guns are dangerous in untrained hands, he knows that much. 

“If you’re shot, how did you get up here?” 

The question pops into his head suddenly, and then he can’t seem to let it go. Because it is physically impossible for someone to get up here and climb through his window even without bleeding all over his floor. But with an injury? 

Not. Humanly. Possible. 

Maybe this isn’t a horror movie scene, maybe this is like Supernatural, where the monster shows up at the harmless guy’s apartment and eats him alive. 

Monsters don’t usually show up wounded, though. 

“Bullet,” the stranger growls. 

“Yes, you got shot with a bullet,” Stiles is pretty sure this guy is losing it - must be the bloodloss getting to him. “But that doesn’t explain how you got up here. This is the seventh floor! Not that I’m not going to call you an ambulance, because I’m definitely a good person, but dude! Weird!” 

Fuck, where is his phone? It’s probably next to his bed somewhere, because he didn’t exactly think of grabbing it when he grabbed the bat. And now he is left with a flashlight and a seriously delirious bleeding stranger. 

He steps closer, to get a better look at the guy. 

“No ambulance.” Another growl. 

“No,” Stiles refuses. “I do not care how suicidal you are, you are absolutely not going to bleed out all over my floor. I refuse. Not gonna happen, big guy.” 

The man probably didn’t even get a chance to steal anything, and Stiles is really trying to get better at not holding grudges. Even though this one would be perfectly reasonable because the guy broke into his apartment, for fuck’s sake, and… No, Stiles, no. 

Because he is trying to be a better person, he grabs his phone from the nightstand, and doesn’t even trip over anything on the way back. He sits down on the floor to the stranger’s side, just in case the person with emergency services tells him to put pressure on the wound. That’s what those people say on every medical show - his own medical knowledge stops at Scott’s inhalers and fixing basic scrapes. 

“I need the bullet,” the stranger grabs Stiles’ arm in a rough grip. 

“The one inside you?” Stiles screeches. 

Is this guy actually asking him to dig out the bullet? Really? 

The stranger’s left hand is holding on to Stiles, but his right hand is completely covered in blood, a bullet clasped between his index finger and thumb. 

Okay, so not that bullet. Clearly Mister Suicidal dug that one out himself. 

“Pocket,” the guy is ever so economical with his words. 

Well, now he is going to have to get into the guy’s personal space. He doesn’t usually do this before the first date - he tries for at least one date before he gets naked with someone because no one is going to call him again in the morning. 

Not that he’s bad in bed - he can rock a woman’s world. Or a man’s. 

Wow, these are not the thoughts he needs to have as he gets into the stranger’s tight, tight jeans and feels around for a mysterious bullet. He tries the left pocket first, but doesn’t find anything - though he does figure out that it is very likely this guy is not wearing any underwear. Not relevant, but very interesting - especially now that he’s getting a good look at the man’s face. 

Holy cheekbones Batman! And the scruff is perfectly maintained too. The eyebrows are a bit severe, but they’re kind of working for him, really. 

If he wasn’t a complete creep, well… No, don’t go there Stiles! 

“Open it,” Bleeding Guy instructs. “Set fire to the powder. Push it into the wound.” 

Push powder that he just lit on fire into a gaping wound? That sounds way more solid than just calling 911. 

Why is he even listening to this guy? Why was he digging into his pocket in the first place? He is supposed to be calling 911 instead of letting him bleed out on his floor. Does this guy not want Stiles to save his loser burglar life? 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” 

An extremely valid question, judging by whatever the fuck is going on right now. There is too much blood for this to be the beginning of a porno (if only), and instead he looks down at his hands, trying to make sure he counts only ten fingers. 

One, two, three, four, five, six….

“Do it,” the stranger opens his eyes for a second, just long enough for Stiles to see that electric blue again. “Please.” 

That last word does not sound all that natural to him. This guy is probably new to the social niceties - at least that’s what it sounds like. Stiles is way better at them, knows how to use them to get what he want - he’s proud to be a Slytherin, thank you very much. 

“You used the magic word,” he just has to go there, because he’s an asshole. “But this is still way more intimate than I’m willing to get with a random burglar whose name I don’t even know.” 

Still, he grabs a cheap lighter from the kitchen cabinet - a gag gift from Scott that has random art of a wolf on it because Stiles got drunk one night and talked about werewolf mythology for three straight hours. 

“Der’k,” the guy tells him triumphantly, words starting to slur. 

That is not a good sign. 

Right, so maybe he’ll just do the bullet thing and when that doesn’t work he can call an ambulance and save Burglar Derek’s life another way. 

So he struggles with the stupid lighter - of course Scott couldn’t spring for the quality stuff for a stupid joke - and he barely manages to free the powder in the bullet without maiming himself or Burglar Derek with his tools. Or the clumsy flailing that anyone who knows him would say is just typical Stiles. 

“Hey Burglar Derek,” he knows that he has to keep the man conscious. “Do you do this often? Just break into seventh floor apartments and bleed out on floors? I could put out a welcome mat on the window sill if you’re going to be a frequent visitor.” 

He can just picture it, the welcome mat hanging off his window sill, there just for Derek. Just in case he gets another hole in his gut that needs Stiles’ typical brand of TLC, or in case he wants to explain how the hell he can climb up to the seventh floor window. 

“Not a bu’gl’r,” the slurring in Derek’s voice is getting worse still. “Hurt.” 

“Yeah buddy,” Stiles finally manages to set the powder aflame. “You’re pretty banged up. Which makes the parkour even more impossible.” 

It lights up with much more enthusiasm than he’d been expecting, but after a quick flare-up, he can easily scoop the powder off the tray and into his hand. It is not as crazy hot as he expected it to be, which is just weird. 

This whole thing is weird. 

“Sorry,” Derek is really starting to lose it. 

Without another thought, Stiles pulls a Hail Mary and rubs the powder onto the wound, getting his hand covered in thick blood. Gross, really gross. 

It works though. Against all odds, it works. 

Derek seizes, eyes wide open and electric blue. His eyebrows disappear and then return, as if they can’t exist on the same face as the ridiculous mutton chops that also make an appearance. Sharp fangs erupt from his mouth and grow down to normal size, before Derek roars loud enough to make Stiles feel like his ears are ringing. When Derek’s fingers turn into claws, Stiles is inches away from being sliced open, close as he is. 

So he’s right. The climb is not humanly possible - because Derek isn’t human. 

Fuck. 

“Fuck,” he says it out loud, just to emphasize his point. “Well that explains everything and nothing at the same time.” 

Glowing eyes, claws, fangs, shifting, lots of hair… If Wolverine were an option, he would have picked that. Alas, the X-men aren’t real - close enough though, when it comes to Derek. 

“Werewolf?” he asks, as casually as he would ask someone their name. 

A nod is Derek’s only response, as he lifts up his tattered shirt to expose the rapidly healing skin underneath. And his abs - and damn, Stiles is impressed. And turned on, even though the way Derek’s shirt is soaked through with blood should have been a major turnoff. 

“Makes sense,” Stiles talks to keep himself far, far away from the sexy thoughts he should not be thinking. “Supernatural strength and speed, probably, because you got up here somehow. Accelerated healing abilities. Claws, fangs, growling, the whole Wolverine shtick. Anything else I need to know?” 

Shit, there is so much werewolf research in his future. He’s going to have to hide his browser history again, which he hasn’t done since he still lived with his father and had just discovered porn. Sure, he doesn’t live with anyone now, but even letting a classmate borrow his laptop could be dangerous if he’s researching werewolf pack structure. 

Derek just gives him a surprised look, as if he didn’t expect Stiles to get to this conclusion so easily, if at all. And that’s just insulting. He has a scholarship to Columbia, for fuck’s sake! His GPA has been near perfect for the three and a half years he’s been studying on the East Coast. He’s smart! Lydia Martin is the only reason he wasn’t valedictorian of his graduating class (that and Harris hating his fucking guts). 

“You’re taking it well,” Derek’s eyebrows speak a language of their own. 

The wolf yanks off his tattered shirt and uses it to wipe away the drying blood around his now-healed wound. Stiles just tries not to ogle The Fucking Abs too much, or at least he tries not to be too obvious about his blatant staring. 

It probably doesn’t work too well. 

“I’ll freak out about this later,” he tries for a blasé shrug. “When you’re all fixed up and safe at home - wherever it is that werewolves live. Where do werewolves live? Disney and the Brothers Grimm haven’t exactly been consistent or clear about that.”

Okay, so maybe this is the start of the freaking out. He can probably hold off for a bit until Derek disappears to wherever werewolves disappear to, so that he doesn’t make a fool of himself yet again. He just found out that Derek is a werewolf, and yet Stiles is scared of freaking him out. 

“Do you need a shirt or something?” he just keeps rambling. “I don’t know if werewolves can catch a cold, but I feel I should offer before I get too distracted by your supernatural hotness and you freeze. Which would be such a waste after getting all bloody saving your life.” 

Ugh, he really needs to wash his hands. At least he has a decent amount of experience washing off blood - his natural clumsiness can be a gift. 

“I’m just gonna…,” he awkwardly waves his bloody hand at Derek. 

He has a bit of trouble closing the bathroom door, as usual. Because his place is a shithole and his landlord doesn’t do anything about it unless there’s extra money to grease the wheels. It’s also why the sink is a bit of a hit or miss when it comes to getting hot water, which is not helping him get his hands clean. 

It takes a while for him to feel ready to get out of the bathroom, a few breathing exercises before staring at his face in the cracked mirror and not quite recognizing the look on his face. 

When he gets out, Derek is gone, and so is any sign that he was ever here - the blood has been cleaned off, and the bat is back underneath his bed. Everything is as it should be, except there is an open drawer in his closet and his favorite Batman shirt is missing. 

And he is alone for the ensuing panic attack. 

Werewolves are real, and he just saved one. Did he even do the right thing, or is Derek out there on the streets hurting people because Stiles was weak for a stranger in need?

He can’t ever tell anyone about this. 

* * *

It takes three weeks for there to be another break-in. 

The bat is ready within arm’s reach, he has gotten better at handling the wolf lighter (it’s even more funny now he knows), and he hasn’t gotten a full night’s sleep since he met Burglar Derek. 

Once again it’s the middle of the night and his window is open, but this time there are glowing red eyes peering at him from his couch. He can’t see any blood, but that does not mean that there is none to see. 

“If I need to save your ass, just let me know,” he huffs in the stranger’s general direction.

This time, he turns on the light right away, because he’s done his research over the past three weeks. He’s waded through pages and pages of information and tried to distill things that made even the slightest bit of sense with the experience he’d had with Burglar Derek. He knows this much: a werewolf’s senses are much better than his own, and if he stays in the dark, he is only going to keep himself at a disadvantage. 

The bright lights make the man with the red eyes flinch, just briefly, giving Stiles just enough time to make a grab for his weapons. And he has many now, always ready and always within his reach - and most of them don’t even look like much. But vicious things come in harmless packages - just look at Stiles himself. 

With the lights on, he can see a familiar silhouette, hunched over on himself on Stiles’ crappy couch. 

“Derek?”

Of course it’s Derek, even though Stiles hasn’t gotten around to installing that welcome mat at his windowsill - something to do with his clumsiness and the risk of death. But he could have sworn that Derek’s special wolf eyes were blue the last go-around. 

“Your eyes,” he just blurts it out. 

“I did it,” Derek doesn’t even look up. “I killed him.”

What the actual fuck? 

There is a murderer having what appears to be a nervous breakdown on his couch, and Stiles doesn’t have the slightest fucking clue what to do about it. 

Does he turn Derek in right the fuck now? Is that what he’s supposed to do? Can the police department even hold a werewolf? Do they know? Are there special cells with wolfsbane in the bars? Shit, has his father been keeping this from him? Because there can’t be that many mountain lions in Beacon Hills. 

There are no wolves in California - his shapely ass. 

“Do you need me to call a lawyer?” Stiles knows he’s getting started on one hell of a ramble. “Are there special werewolf lawyers and a werewolf court of law with werewolf judges? Does it take place on the night of the full moon? Or do you need me to record your confession? I know a ton about due process and I could even make a citizen’s arrest if your guilt is getting to you. My dad’s a Sheriff back home, and even though Beacon Hills is nothing compared to the big city, I have seen things.”

Stiles has Seen Things. Nothing supernatural that he knows off, but there had been some pretty gruesome murders in his junior and senior year of high school. His least favorite teacher, the school bus driver, the substitute English teacher who creeped him the fuck out and who supposedly killed like three people. Or six, depending on who he asked. 

“I couldn’t let him kill her,” Derek hasn’t heard a thing he said. “She’s my family. Everyone is dead, just us. And him. Just us, now.”

Self-defense. It sounds like it could be self-defense, could at least be argued as self-defense and Stiles is really hoping Derek has a good lawyer, because this could ruin the rest of his life. He doesn’t deserve that - does he? 

Stiles hardly even knows this guy, so why is he concerned? 

“Laura’s in the hospital.”

“Laura?” he asks. 

“My sister,” Derek finally looks at him, with human eyes shining with tears. “She will be fine. Eventually. But even for a wolf… It was bad. Alpha wounds don’t heal quickly. I can’t believe Peter was so desperate to be in the Alpha pack that he’d…”

This shit, this crazy bonkerballs werewolf shit… How is he supposed to make sense of all of this? An Alpha what? Peter who? What even is an Alpha pack? Derek has a sister? 

Yes, surely that last one is equally crazy as the previous items on the list. He hasn’t thought about werewolf families a lot - he mostly got caught in a research loop on werewolf strengths and weaknesses, and a whole lot of kinky porn. Like, a lot a lot. 

ADHD at its finest. 

“Peter?”

“My uncle,” Derek’s eyes bleed red once more. 

Okay, while Stiles and his father do not always get along, and the old man worries about him way too much (and Stiles worries about his seriously unhealthy eating habits in return), there are no homicidal tendencies in the Stilinski family. 

Is it a werewolf thing or a Peter is an evil murdering bastard thing? 

“I’m supposed to be a beta,” Derek tries to withdraw his claws, but fails. “Laura was supposed to be Alpha after Mom… But then Peter, and…”

Why isn’t he completely fucking terrified right now? There is a werewolf sitting on his couch, with his claws out and completely lacking the control to shift back to human. Stiles is supposed to get out his special wolfsbane tranq darts - not pat the man on the shoulder reassuringly to try and get him to calm the fuck down. 

His fight or flight response is completely fucked, and he is pretty sure that he cannot just blame Derek for that one. 

“Deep breaths.” Calming Derek down comes easy to him. “Just talk to me.” 

It is easy to talk to Derek as if he’s coming down from a panic attack, just like the way Stiles’ dad talks to him whenever it seems like he cannot breathe. It is easy to place a gentle hand on his shoulder, unconcerned by the claws and fangs that could rip him apart without a second’s notice. 

If Derek wanted to kill him, he would already be dead. 

“My mom used to be the Alpha,” Derek starts. “She was a good leader. Everyone in town could come to her with issues, not just the wolves. People listened to her. Everyone adored her.” 

The past tense is terrible - Stiles knows better than anyone how it feels to have a hole in his life where his mother used to be. He knows all about the memories that have gotten more hazy over the years, and about worrying that he can’t quite remember the color of her eyes and her hair and the way her hands tickled the fine hairs on his head. 

But at least Stiles has his dad. And Scott. He has people to talk to - does Derek? Did he ever? 

“And then Kate,” Derek flinches, “she flirted with me. And I was pathetic, because she was older and beautiful and interested in me.” 

Jesus, is everything about Derek tied together with pain and regret and abuse? 

“How much older?” Stiles does not like where this is going. 

“I was fifteen,” Derek shrugs, “and she was in her late twenties. I never asked her for her age. She said it wasn’t important.” 

Isn’t that what they always say?

“It was,” Stiles is vehement. “It is.” 

“It isn’t,” Derek growls. “Because I was old enough to know better, but I told her everything. I brought her to the house because I didn’t want to do it in the backseat of a car. Not for my…” 

First time? 

Stiles is ready to kill that woman, without another thought. He’s sure the sentence will be lenient when they hear about what she did to a teenage werewolf. Not that he can tell anyone about that, because that is Derek’s secret to share. Besides, he knows the inside of Eichen House intimately, and he knows that there are similar facilities in the city. And they will not be all that different. 

“I was at school when the fire started,” Derek’s claws dig into the skin of his thighs. “I wasn’t supposed to be, but Laura’s yearbook meeting ran late and I didn’t have a ride.” 

The scent of blood is thick, metallic, overpowering. Stiles decides to breathe through his mouth, because there are no good memories here and he really doesn’t want to vomit all over Derek when he’s actually opening up. 

“Everyone else was inside,” Derek makes no move to unsheathe the claws. 

“Derek,” Stiles reaches for his hands, crawling halfway into Derek’s lap to get close enough. “Let go. Just let go. I know it’ll heal, but don’t. Please, just don’t.” 

Another growl is all the response he gets to that, and Stiles feels it in his bones. That’s what makes him tilt his head, exposing his throat to Derek, surrendering to the Alpha. That is what the lesser wolves are supposed to do, right?

And Stiles isn’t even a wolf. He is just a pathetic, breakable human with a new arsenal he doesn’t quite know how to use. And he really doesn’t want to use it on Derek. 

“Fuck,” Derek hisses through his fangs. “Fuck.” 

Just a few inches and Derek’s fangs could tear out his throat. They won’t - Stiles submitted and Derek is pretty much running completely on instinct at this point. 

Because he killed his fucking uncle - because this is Stiles’ life now. 

“It’s okay,” Stiles stays exactly where he is. “Well, no, none of what you just said is okay, but I’m okay. You didn’t hurt me. You won’t hurt me.” 

Derek’s shuddering breaths get back into a rhythm, and through half-lidded eyes Stiles sees him visibly pull himself back together. The claws fade into regular hands, ridiculous wolfy facial hair back to Derek’s dangerously attractive scruff. Derek’s eyes remain red, as if he’s yet to retain control of those. 

“That’s good,” Stiles hums in approval. 

He’s a fraction of a second away from making a “good wolf” joke, but he knows that this is exactly the wrong time for that. And for once, his stupid mouth doesn’t get away with him and actually listens to his brain. It’ll last for about half a minute, if he’s lucky, but at least it worked. 

“Uncle Peter didn’t die,” Derek just continues with his story. 

The floodgates have opened, and it’s like there is nothing that can hold him back from finishing his story. Is this the first time he’s told someone? 

“He was the Alpha,” Derek’s red eyes stare right at him. “He shouldn’t have been, because Laura was next in line. The only way he could have… He killed my mother. His sister. For power. Laura and I just thought it had been a mistake. That maybe our mother knew it was the only way to save Peter’s life, but… It wasn’t.” 

Just like that, Stiles knows that he is never going to report the murder of Peter Hale. His father would undoubtedly be disappointed if he ever found out, but Stiles has always known he’s a little bit more Old Testament than his old man. An eye for an eye doesn’t seem like such a terrible thing if it keeps the people he cares for safe. 

And it is so goddamn easy to care for Derek. Easier than it should be. 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles still has his neck in that awkward position. 

“No,” Derek shakes his head vehemently. 

Seconds later, Derek’s facial hair is rubbing at his throat. Derek appears to be sniffing him, marking him, and Stiles tries so very hard (hah!) not to show any outward signs of just how interested he is in this behavior. 

“You’re pack,” Derek rumbles in Stiles’ ear. “You saved me. You’re pack. Need to smell like pack. So you’re protected. No one can hurt you.” 

Oh God, yes. Derek wants him as his, wants to keep him safe. 

Really? He is just going to let his dick rule him again, when he’s got a seriously traumatized dude rubbing himself all over him? Okay, he really doesn’t mind, but Derek clearly didn’t come here for that - he came here for support. He came to see a sidekick, not for some sexy wolfy mating that Stiles had seen a lot of porn about. 

Focus, Stiles. Fucking focus. 

“Slow your roll there, buddy,” Stiles is trying to will down a serious boner and having very little success. 

“You don’t want to?” Derek pulls himself back so fast Stiles loses his balance. 

Of course he lands right back in Derek’s lap, because he’s an embarrassing excuse for a human being. He’s an embarrassing excuse for a human being who can’t seem to get anything right, because Derek now seems terrified that he did something wrong. 

“You have my permission to rub yourself all over me,” Stiles knows just how to make things worse. “But as much as I like that, I really don’t wanna take advantage of you. You came here because you feel safe here, for some stupid reason. I don’t wanna fuck that up. So, whatever you need. I’m here. You need me to come to the hospital with you? Need me to fix up your wounds? Need me to listen? Anything, dude.” 

How pathetic - how easy is he, really? He is just offering himself up to his Alpha - to  _ the _ Alpha - for whatever the man may want. What the hell is wrong with him? Why does he need to care for Derek so badly? 

Why does he respond so instinctively to this stranger’s needs? 

“Will you stay with Laura?” Derek looks at the floor. “I have to… I have to be the Alpha, but I can’t leave her alone.” 

“Of course.” 

Within minutes, Stiles has an overnight bag packed, his defenses prepped, and he is out the door. Derek’s leather jacket is wrapped around his body - for safety, apparently. 

It’s a werewolf thing.

* * *

 

Apparently Derek already got in touch with the hospital, telling them that his boyfriend was coming by to sit with Laura. Apparently only immediate family is allowed, and well… Stiles may be pack, but he’s not family. So, fake boyfriend. Because Derek said so. 

And Stiles… goes along with it, because well? If only. 

Laura Hale - they actually have a last name, wow - has a private room, and since visiting hours are technically over, Stiles is the only other person around. 

He’s already discovered that the chairs are not exactly conducive to sleep, but he resolutely ignores the cramping in his muscles and takes brief cat naps (or is there such a thing as wolf naps). He wakes whenever a nurse or orderly walks close to the room’s entrance, until Laura’s steady breathing once again lulls him to sleep. 

“Who the hell are you?” 

Well, clearly he got some sleep, before being rudely woken up. 

The girl on the bed is trying to sit up, growling, and he really does not want her to rip or tear anything in her body. Or yank out her IV with her rapidly-forming claws. 

“Laura,” he sighs in relief. “You’re awake. Your brother has been so worried.” 

That seems to soothe her a little bit, but the look on her face is still extremely weary - which totally makes sense seeing as there’s a stranger at her bedside after her uncle tried to kill her. The ridiculous werewolf facial hair looks weird on her, but it is already melting away before Stiles can say something awkward about it and mortally offend her. 

“I’m Stiles,” he introduces himself awkwardly. “Derek asked me to stay with you while he… dealt with some things. I’m gonna step in closer so you can smell me, okay?” 

Once again, he is within fang-distance of a werewolf, and he is probably more scared of Laura than he is of Derek. No matter how weird or pathetic that may sound. Derek he knows and trusts with his life - Laura? He has no idea what she’s like. 

“My brother is all over you,” Laura’s grin is positively delighted. “And you’re wearing his jacket too. Clearly the idiot has finally developed some good taste. It’s like a decade late, but better late than never.” 

He’s always wanted a sister - Scott has been all the brother he could ever need, but Stiles has always wondered what it would be like to have the warmth of a sister. It’s a whole different dynamic - more softness, he’d hoped. More mischief, seeing as it took so much effort to drag Scott into all the shenanigans. Maybe if he’d had a sister… 

In this, he gets to be a little bit jealous of Derek. Laura loves him - so much. It’s obvious in the way she talks about him, the way she grins when Stiles mentions his name… 

Fuck, he misses Scott and his dad. He misses his family. 

“Yeah, I’m adorable,” Stiles sees no need for false modesty at this point. “Now, tell me, how are you feeling? Have to report back, you see.” 

How he should do that, he doesn’t know. Derek hasn’t exactly given him a phone number, and Stiles is pretty sure that Twilight’s werewolf telepathy isn’t actually based on fact. He really hopes not, because having anything related to Twilight being legit would be terrifying, and just really fucking wrong. 

Are vampires real? Do they sparkle? Do they stalk people and watch them sleep, because hell to the no. 

Sure, Derek broke into his apartment that one time, but he wasn’t there to watch Stiles sleep. He genuinely needed his help, which is just way less creepy. 

Also, Derek is way more attractive than Edward Cullen. Like, way more. 

“Stiles?” Laura pats him none too gently on his arm. 

Okay, right, priorities. He’s supposed to have those. 

“Sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” Laura grins. “I’m sure the thought of my brother is super distracting.” 

She has no idea just how distracting he finds Derek. Honestly. His brain is difficult to keep on track even in the easiest circumstances, and with Derek around it is almost impossible. 

“Well, yeah.” 

Laura just laughs, but she’s not laughing at him. She’ll undoubtedly laugh at Derek a ton when he comes back, but it seems like she actually likes Stiles. 

Not that it should matter, but it does. It just does. 

“I’m doing better,” Laura settles on the mattress. “It’s gonna take a while, because Peter was an Alpha when he did this, but I’ll be fine. I’ll be out of here soon. When Derek gets a handle on things, on the Pack.” 

So wait, healing gets complicated when there’s an Alpha involved? Seriously, is there a Pack 101 course he can take somewhere? He just really doesn’t want to fuck this up. Sure, he’s absolutely trying to get all over Derek, but the Hale siblings are also the first real friends he’s made in the city - yes, he’s very aware of how pathetic he is. 

Or just how difficult to like - because after three and a half years, he should have at least one friend to show for it. Alas, just like in Beacon Hills, people just think he’s weird. 

“Pack,” Stiles repeats dumbly. 

“Peter bit a bunch of teenagers after the fire,” Laura rolls her eyes. “Not his smartest decision. But we’ve all grown up since then. You’ll probably meet them soon, now that you’re part of the Pack.” 

So wait, this Pack is made up of people his age, or a little younger? Is Derek playing big brother to all of them, or something? Did Peter act as the creepy uncle, biting those kids in some dark corner? Ew. 

“Derek said that,” Stiles rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “I’ve never been in a Pack before.”

Well, maybe in a pack of two, just him and his father. The Stilinski men, loyal and true and nagging at each other the whole time. He’d mostly worked in duos (with his dad and with Scott). Having a group, a pack? There weren’t enough people who gave a damn about Stiles. 

“You’re doing awesome so far,” Laura holds up her hand for a high five. “You not only fixed my brother’s wounds, but you’re also seducing him. He’s been so uptight, he needs someone like you. We all do. We aren’t exactly happy little puppies.” 

He goes in for the high five, because of course. Laura isn’t at full wolf strength, which is lucky for him. She could probably break his arm like a twig. 

“I’m not seducing anyone.”

“Really? That’s what you got stuck on?”

Instead of getting fixated on the very nice compliments, Stiles just goes right for the denial, as usual. No wonder his father laughed when he finally came out as bi, telling his son that he’d known forever, from the suspiciously specific denial he’d spurted all three times his father had found him at Jungle, the local gay and drag club. 

Apparently he really was - and is - attractive to gay guys. 

“If you’re not,” Laura leans in, whispering, “and you want to, you really should.”

“Why are you whispering?”

Stiles is leaning forward in his chair, and the shock of a strange voice echoing through the room makes him crash onto the floor with a loud thud. 

“Fuck, that hurts.”

“Good thing you’re already in a hospital,” a blonde woman winks at him. “Or, I could take a look at that for you.”

She is stunning, and really fucking familiar. He did not remember Erica Reyes looking quite like this when they were in high school - for one, there wasn’t nearly as much leather. Or make-up. She was softer then, kind and quiet and haunted. 

Fucking Matt ruined high school for her. No wonder she transferred. 

“Pipe down, Erica,” another eye roll from Laura. “He’s Derek’s.”

“Holy shit, really?”

“No, I’m not.”

A beat. Both women just look at him and laugh - his ego is taking a blow there. Erica takes a not so surreptitious sniff of Eau de Stiles, and her eyes widen. 

“Yes, you are.” 

“Damn it, Catwoman,” he can never be mad at her. 

A stupid nickname, born of the project they’d done together in sophomore year. Erica had been awkward around him for some reason, but he’d been as likeable as he possibly could be. He wanted her to be his friend - part of him still does. Even now he’s scrambling to get up off the floor as Erica stares at him with fond exasperation. 

And now she’s Pack? 

“That’s quite the transformation, Batman,” Erica looks him up and down with a leer. “Alpha is a very lucky idiot.”

He practically throws himself at her, hugging her close. Someone from home, from Beacon Hills, right here and part of his pack! She is not the same person she was 5 years ago, but then neither is he. It’s so good to have her here, to hug someone. 

Maybe he’s been more lonely than he thought. No roommate, no real friends in his classes, Scott only able to visit occasionally because Beacon Hills isn’t exactly around the corner. No seeing his Dad except for the occasional holiday. No significant other, because who the hell is he kidding?! 

“Oh, this is going to be good,” Laura is laughing from her hospital bed. “Derek is going to need to put his scent on you to replace Erica’s. It’s instinct. And he likes you.”

He abruptly lets go of Erica and takes a few steps back. He is sure his skin is blotchy and red from the stupid blush that’s creeping its way up his neck. This is embarrassing, and he needs to make an awkward escape right the fuck now. 

“Back off Laura,” Derek enters the room. “And what have I told you about calling me an idiot, Erica?”

There go his odds of a decent exit. He can’t exactly leave with Derek here, looking at him like he’s actually happy to see Stiles. 

But he must have heard - with his special werewolf senses there is no way he did not hear everything Erica and Laura have been saying about him. And about Stiles, and how Derek feels about Stiles. Which can’t be true, because even that almost moment… it can’t have been real. 

“Not to do it where you can hear me?” 

“Exactly.” Wow, that’s a lot of sarcasm for one word. 

At least Derek looks better now - his eyes are back to their normal color and his skin is not nearly as ashy. His muscles still seem locked tight, but he is no longer acting like there is a monster waiting for him just around the corner, ready to kill them all. 

Which is helping his own peace of mind as well. Because this whole werewolf revelation has come with a significant amount of blood and violence and death - he’s not really cut out for that bit. 

“Stiles,” Derek steps in close to him. 

“Derek.” 

“Erica,” the blonde just has to get sassy. “Don’t you think your boy smells a little too much like Beta and a bit too little of his Alpha? You should do something about that.” 

He wonders why she is pushing this agenda so damn hard - what is in it for her? What does she get out of this? Why does Derek having a partner/hook-up/date mean this much to her? And why does it have to be Stiles?

Not that he minds that particular bit, of course he doesn’t. If Derek were actually interested, instead of just pushed into this by circumstance and his Pack members - Stiles would be all over that. He would love to be all over Derek - seriously, he’s had some very explicit dreams about that very topic over the past few weeks. 

“Stop,” Derek growls. 

In response, Stiles tilts his head, showing off his neck to Derek. It’s like the werewolf stuff is unlocking these latent instincts, telling him he’s supposed to submit to the Alpha, at least in this. He’s going to be arguing with Derek forever, probably. 

“Fuck,” Derek whispers, staring intently at something behind Stiles. 

Fuck, no, not that he’s planning to be around Derek forever. Just as long as Derek puts up with him. Which probably won’t be for very long. 

It never is. 

And that’s fine. That’s totally fine. He wouldn’t be disappointed if Derek just decided that he didn’t want Stiles in his pack after all, because he is a useless spaz. Or maybe he is just keeping him around for a while, because Derek feels like he owes him after the whole life-saving deal. 

That’s probably it. 

Stiles will get to feel like he’s part of a group for a while, until he inevitably wears out his welcome, by being himself. 

What is Derek staring at? What’s behind him that is so interesting? Should he turn around and check? That would probably look weird, right? 

“Stiles.” 

He’s still looking. 

Now he has to check, frantically looking behind him to see what could possibly be interesting enough to hold Derek’s attention. 

But there’s nothing there - just wall, and boring hospital room stuff. 

“Stiles.” 

Oh, so he wasn’t staring at something else after all. Was he actually staring at Stiles?

Why would he do that? 

“I have to go.” 

His feet take him away from the hospital room with his usual lack of grace. 

Well, that’s an exit. 

* * *

There is a knock on his window the next night. 

He knows it’s probably Derek, or at least one other members of the pack - of his pack - coming to check up on him after his awkward exit from the hospital. They’re making sure that their fragile human pack member is still among the living, and no enemy werewolves have somehow gotten a hold of him. 

Does he hope it’s Derek, or pray that it’s not? 

Would he even know an enemy werewolf if it didn’t roar at him and flash him with eye or fang? How does one recognize a werewolf at first glance? Is there a special knock, or a codeword? Will he have to mention shoelaces because that is a step too far. 

More knocking. 

Couldn’t they just let themselves in? Derek did, the last two times. How to climb through a window gracefully and without ruining the lock was probably in the werewolf handbook somewhere. Somewhere before the wolfsbane bullet stuff, but after the chapter on impossible supernatural hotness.

Because wow, unfair. 

“Stiles,” a voice at the window. Derek’s voice. 

He’s not relieved it’s Derek, not pleased that his Alpha has once again come to his window, not thrilled that Derek has actually figured out how to knock. He’s not pathetic like that - only he really, really is. 

“Derek,” he mutters from between clenched teeth. 

Being angry with himself is the default - but it’s so much easier to just pout and groan and lash out. He can see why Derek growls so much. It’s better than the whole self-hatred deal. 

The window opens easily - it used to get stuck from time to time. Did someone actually fix it? Did one of those meddling werewolves actually put their special skills to good use so Stiles doesn’t have to nag at his landlord again? 

They probably did it so they could enter his apartment more easily. That makes a certain wolfy kind of sense. 

“Sorry about the lack of welcome mat. I’m still working on that, but the physics of it is a little more complicated than just putting up a welcome mat should be.”

Has he ever even told Derek of his plan to put a welcome mat outside his window or was that just one of his thought rambles? The ones he is always so sure he’s talked about, until the person he’s talking to looks at him in that way that makes him realize he’d mostly been talking to himself again. 

Of course people don’t actually listen to him - or he forgets to tell them stuff. His brain is a mess even when he remembers to take his Adderall. And he tends to forget that as well, so… 

Wait, where was he? The welcome mat, right. 

He stares dumbly at Derek, who has managed to gracefully climb into Stiles’ apartment, without even disturbing the carelessly placed research that’s covering most of the flat surfaces. Stiles hates him a little for that, and a lot more for the research on werewolf pack structures that is littering his floor. 

Why is he doing this to himself? 

“So, what is it that brings you to Casa Stiles on this fine night?” The rambling is easier than the thinking. “Something good or something bad? Is Laura okay? And Erica? And the rest of your pack that I haven’t met yet? I guess it’s our pack, right? I’m part of the pack. Or is that why you’re here? Because I’m not, because I shouldn’t be? Makes sense that you figured out I’m too weird to have in the pack. I’m not very strong or anything… And I flail a lot. And talk. Mostly I do a lot of talking.” 

Well, that’s just embarrassing. 

Derek has managed to sit down on the bed - the very bed that is a mess and smells like things that Derek probably shouldn’t know about, for all that they technically sort of involved him. But mostly Stiles’ imagination. 

His lube supply has taken quite the hit and he’s been pleasantly sore for most of the day, and he hasn’t tried to face the reality of Derek being back in this space. Smelling every single time Stiles pretended it was Derek touching him. 

But now he is, and now he knows. 

“You’re pack,” Derek is vehement. “If you want.” 

So even after he ran away like a scared little boy, Derek still wants him in the pack. Does he still feel like he owes Stiles for the whole wolfsbane bullet thing? Or, God forbid, does he actually like Stiles as a person? 

The latter seems ridiculously optimistic. 

“I want,” Stiles tries not to get embarrassed about the croak in his voice. 

For a second there, it seems like Derek smiles at him. And just that second is enough to have Stiles feel like he’s floating, just a little bit. He has a pack and Derek is sitting on his bed and smiling. 

He pinches himself. It hurts. 

When he lets himself fall onto the bed, next to Derek, there is a shift. 

“I’m sorry if Laura and Erica made you uncomfortable yesterday,” Derek is oddly formal now, every inch the politician. “If you want me to tell them to stop…” 

Shit, maybe he should get a bit more distance between them. Maybe he has been misreading everything, misreading the way Derek looked at him. 

He wants to believe that Laura and Erica are right, and he’s actually Derek’s. And maybe Derek is actually his. 

“I’m fine.” 

“I can hear your heartbeat, Stiles. That was a lie.” 

Derek is turning to face him, a single hand reaching out to grab his arm. He is gentle with Stiles - like he can feel that his heartbeat is starting to race in response to just how close they are. 

“That’s really rude, you know,” he is psyching himself up just to keep his heart racing. “A serious invasion of privacy. Us weak, fragile humans have to be able to keep some power.” 

It’s just that he cannot know - he’s ashamed of how powerless the discovery of the supernatural world has made him feel. He’s always known that he isn’t exactly the pinnacle of Darwinism, but this is worse. He is the pity pack member, the coincidence. The guy who would snap like a twig if someone ever came after him. 

“You’re not fragile,” Derek shakes his head. “There is nothing weak about you. Your spine must be made of steel. You came after me with a bat, and then you saved my life. You could have turned me in, could have let me die. You sat with Laura at the hospital. A woman you’d never met! I wish more people were like you.” 

Stiles pinches his arm again - it seemed easier to believe in werewolves than to believe that someone has grown to care for him so easily, so fully. 

“Erica told me about you. You were the one person in her class who didn’t treat her like an invalid because of the seizures. You made her laugh after that asshole posted the video. You still emailed her after she left.” 

Compliments make him anxious, especially ones that are just commendations for kind things any sane human would do. Stiles isn’t particularly kind - he’s a cunning asshole who just happens to have a loyal streak a mile wide. 

“She didn’t reply,” Stiles starts fiddling with the edge of the bed covers. 

“Peter said no,” Derek stills his hand. “All contact with her old life was forbidden - focus on the now, on the Pack.” 

He can’t look down, because Derek is actually holding his hand, or just clasping it in his warmer one. Damn, werewolves really do run hotter - in many different ways that make his heart pound in his chest. 

Maybe he actually gets to have this. 

“I keep telling you things,” Derek is staring again. “I never talk this much. But I - you. I don’t want you to misunderstand me.” 

All the signals are there. Derek is showing all the signs that he wants to be close to Stiles, even closer than he is already - and that’s quite close, their legs pressing together, side by side on the bed. The bed where he… thinks of Derek, rubbing himself raw and hoping Laura and Erica were not joking about the Alpha being lucky. 

“They said I was yours. Is that true?” 

Silence, and he hopes he hasn’t ruined anything. 

“If you want.” 

“I want.” 

Red eyes flare. 

Stiles kisses him, because he can’t not do it. 

One hand on Derek’s jaw, stubble scraping against his skin, making his lips feel swollen after just a few short kisses. One hand on Derek’s waist, reaching desperately for bare skin under Derek’s supernaturally tight shirt. 

His own shirt doesn’t live through another minute, as Derek pops a single claw to slice it off him, and fuck, why is that tight control so damn hot? 

They make out like teenagers, at it for hours, unable to stop kissing long enough to get the rest of their clothes off. Stiles ends up with a stunning amount of hickeys that none of his shirts will hide, and an uncomfortable wet spot on his jeans. 

But fuck if he isn’t happy about it.

* * *

 

The next time Derek enters his apartment, he uses the front door. He doesn’t leave for at least twenty-four hours, when one of his betas calls with a Pack emergency and Stiles is forced to abandon his plans for round six. 

Derek exits through the front door as well, and Stiles watches him go with a fond grin. 

He never does install that welcome mat, though. The rest of the pack can use the damn door - the window is special. 


End file.
